Mono no Aware
by God-Save-Our-Noble-Tea
Summary: What would happen if a destiny was stolen? A Self-Insert OC story. Be warned.
1. A Preface of Sorts

**Mono no Aware**

.

What if a destiny was stolen?

.

 **A/N: I've replaced this chapter with an edited up-to-date version, as when I originally posted this, it was 3 in the morning and I had no sense of double-checking and was far to liberal with my commas - you'll have to forgive me. This, of course, is the updated and double checked version, poof-read and all. A thousand apologies. Please tell me what you think!**

.

 _ **Mono no aware**_ _(_ _物の哀れ_ _), literally "_ _the pathos of things_ _", and also translated as "_ _an empathy toward things_ _", or "_ _a sensitivity to ephemera_ _", is a Japanese term for the awareness of impermanence (_ _無常_ _mujō_ _), or transience of things, and both a transient gentle sadness (or wistfulness) at their passing as well as a longer, deeper gentle sadness about this state being the reality of life._

.

.

 **Preface.**

.

.

An insight into the **after.**

.

.

The hotel room was small, and rather bland looking, with matching set furniture and a poor quality rug that curled at the edges at the foot of the bed. There was a large wall to ceiling window leading out to the view from the 22nd floor, hidden by thick beige blackout curtains and muffling the sound of the wind. It had that vaguely stale smell of over-sprayed supposedly floral air freshener, mixed with the complete apathy of the staff, and looked much the same.

A man was sat on the bed crumpling the off-white, rather rough duvet, staring at me.

I blinked as reality snapped into focus. I was perched gingerly on one of those ugly armchairs that served for no comfort, merely some twisted aesthetic value; it looked like suede and tartan had an accident together, and then regretted the decision.

I stared back.

The air was still, and dry. Dust motes sat still in the air, stationary in the sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains. There was a deafening silence, devoid of even a heartbeat, and I had the distinct impression I was shaking.

"You _failed_."

.

.

An insight into the **before**.

.

.

The hotel room was small, and rather bland looking, with matching set furniture and a poor quality rug that curled at the edges at the foot of the bed. There was a large wall to ceiling window leading out to the view from the 22nd floor, hidden by thick beige blackout curtains and muffling the sound of the wind. It had that vaguely stale smell of over-sprayed supposedly floral air freshener, mixed with the complete apathy of the staff, and looked much the same.

At least, it had two days ago.

Now it burned with an angry, violent heat; it crawled up the walls and licked at the furniture with an unforgiving light. Smoke billowed against the ceiling like clouds of charcoal, lingering under doorframes and choking the life from the room.

The air was arid and crackling, stealing my breath away with every breath and turning my lungs into an inferno of sensations. It seared at my eyes, at my fingers and nose, leaving them too hot, too dry and causing skin to begin to crack and stick. Tears dribbled down over my face, heating and evaporating, pain blooming in their wake as I collided with the wall, bouncing off and stumbling over ruined furniture.

The wallpaper cracked and snapped, small fragments hitting my cheek as I stumbled away and into the doorframe of the kitchen area. There was a loud groan that made my bones ache, and the room pitched sideways as dust and plasterboard flew across the air, a scream leaving me as a strangled shriek.

"EMILY!"

Ash burned at the back of my throat, my breath catching beneath my ribs and sending me into a coughing fit that tore something in my mouth and sent copper spilling onto the back of my tongue. Light burned at my eyes, heat making them reluctant to turn or open properly once shut against debris, making it impossible to see through the ash and smoke.

"EMILY!"

There was a muffled screech over the roar of the flames as patches spread around me faster than I could keep track, engulfing the room before I could make my way half way across. A thick thud sounded from one of the closed bedrooms, and horror was a pit in my stomach and a balm to the heat nothing else could replicate; I all but fell through a wall of flames that was once a worktop, landing awkwardly in the splinters and getting half of them in my arms, before scrambling towards the thick wooden barricade.

It wouldn't move, it wouldn't move, IT WOULDN'T MOVE. My nails screamed as I clawed for an entrance, only to yell on reflex as my mind blanked, flinching away from the almost molten metal door handle. The disintegrating sole on my boot made contact with the burning door after an assault of coughs, lungs bubbling and my mouth like the Sahara, again and again until the frame cracked and fell apart. The door was wrenched away; fragments of glowing wood scattering in all directions and a young face of not more than seven emerging, sooty, red and raw, and twisted with fear, hands shaking as she cried.

"EMILY! EMS, E-EMSY I'M HERE. I-I-I'M HERE, COME ON!"

And then the ceiling caved in and agony burst from my lower back, the heavy beams from above landing around me and fracturing the floorboards with an explosion of wooden shrapnel. I was dimly aware of the floor, carpet melting not two feet away, pressed against my face as I breathed in debris and ash, lungs struggling and heaving for poisonous air.

Sound faded, and light danced across my eyes. I was dimly aware that Emily was screaming at me and crying, stumbling back as fire began to eat at my outstretched hand, fingers stretched towards her.

There was a loud cracking noise, and then nothing.

.

.

An insight into the **next**.

.

.

His voice settled in the room, permeating the silence. It was quiet, and blunt, and sounded like he was commenting on the weather - If I hadn't been staring at him, I wouldn't have realised he had spoken.

"You. Failed." he repeated lightly when I didn't respond, eyes never leaving mine.

My stomach rolled deep in my core and my eyes stung, moisture gathering there as I recognised the truth to his words. I failed. I had _failed_.

"… Yes - yes I did," My voice cracked, throat dry from disuse, heat and the clog in my throat.

"Would you try anew?"

He didn't blink, but he sounded somewhat curious as he shifted his weight, looking all of a sudden all the more intent on my answer, smoothing the duvet underhand absentmindedly with a scarred hand.

"Y-Yes I would. I w-would, if I h-had the chance. And I-I-I wouldn't fail, not like that, _not again_."

There was a pause. My throat shuddered and my limbs felt like gravity had a grudge as his eyes, dark and unforgiving, scanned my face.

And then he smiled, both wry and genuinely pleased with something he had evidently found.

.

" _Yes you will_."

.

.

And the world burned again.

.

.

A/N

 **Yet again I delve into a self-insert and attempt to keep it going. Ha. Hahahahahahahah. I do have a story though, which is quite a new concept for me. Read at your own risk. Feedback is more than welcome. Message me if you want to discuss anything!**

 **Tea.**


	2. Chapter One

**Mono no Aware**

.

What if a destiny was stolen?

.

 **A/N: Now we're getting started. Hope you don't mind my ramblings. All constructive comments welcome – negative ones will only fuel my writing. It's like throwing petrol onto a bonfire – you gone and fucked up. Also, I have re-edited my first** **chapter - I was working on very little sleep over a three day period when I wrote and submitted that, so I have consequently gone back, edited the shit out of it and resubmitted it. Please re-read the first chapter if you read it before!**

.

Disclaimer: I wish I owned Naruto – I would have a great deal more money if I did.

.

 _If you aren't in the moment, you're either looking forward to uncertainty, or back to pain and regret. –_ _ **Jim Carrey**_

.

.

Chapter One

.

.

Once upon a time, I was born.

I was not _aware_ enough to understand it at the time, thank god, and it wouldn't be until I was about twelve that the realisation that _I was created by another pair of human beings doing the do_ hit me full force; that I came from **inside** another human being took another three hours to digest, and a great deal of denial afterwards to cope with it.

I couldn't look Mum squarely in the eye for a solid day and a half, and thereafter pulled a face any time the topic was mentioned – after all that was _Mum_. One does not simply think about the mechanics of one's mother's vagina. It's just not on, or done, frankly. It's weird, and uncomfortable, and it was bad enough when I walked into the bathroom to go about my morning business and ended up with a much fuller picture of the maternal figure in my life than I ever truly intended to as it was.

The downsides of living with a mother who sleeps in the nude are varied and very, very real. That's fine and dandy and your lifestyle choice, but I don't really want it anywhere near me. Or in my line of vision.

Fortunately (for me), or unfortunately (as was the case for my mother's stomach muscles), the first time around I was delivered via a Caesarean. I was also a newborn baby with the collective intelligence of a dead gnat at the time, so life was the best it had ever been, I suppose. No complaints.

The second time around, not so much; I may sound inherently blasé about the whole shebang now, but at the time it was a mess of sensation, horror and the reaction to a _completely new body_.

It was not mine. This was _not_ the body of an eighteen-year-old. This was not the body I was decidedly attached to. This was not the body I grew up in, went about day-to-day life in and bemoaned about the state of. This was not the body I bled in, I sweat from and I stubbed my toe all the time with. This was not _mine_. This was a brand new model, still with its original red paint, in need of a wipe down and with problematic wiring.

It's an odd sensation to know how to do something and yet _**not**_ at the same time. It's all very well and good from a mental standpoint – logically you know how to do this – after all you've done it before. You do movement A, and B occurs, you do movement C and all is well – but unless there's muscle memory there you are well and truly fucked. I was. This of course – paired with the collective intelligence and experience of an eighteen-year-old failure that just burnt to death on the 22nd floor of a hotel, and was then offered another hypothetical chance for life by an frankly _odd_ man in said hotel room – did not bode well.

The best way I know to describe it is saying that it was vaguely like surfacing from the deep end of a pool, only my nerve endings were on fire and responding wrong, the pool was made of assorted bodily fluids and attempted to squash me like a grape while holding the consistency of custard, and any and all sense I retained from the whole experience went out the metaphorical window. There was a lot of screaming involved - Rightly so, in my opinion.

It was truly, _truly_ horrific.

The mental and fairly logical _need to breathe_ is a frighteningly strong reflex – understandable given the amount of time spent doing it while alive – and being squeezed like play dough in a vice doesn't help matters; the breach from between two burning thighs and the cold sensation of the air hitting me for the first time haunts me – it was too exposed and too vulnerable and entirely mortifying. This was a _woman's vagina_ I was emerging from – it still makes me cringe and want to become part of nearby furniture every single time the memory floats by.

It was unbearably claustrophobic, like being wrapped the wrong way in a blanket with your limbs trapped. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see and I felt like gravity had suddenly decided it didn't like me. I was so very _fragile_ , limbs shaking and intolerably heavy; twisting and twitching violently in the wrong direction every time I tried to move anything and sometimes just didn't react at all, merely jerking on the spot pathetically.

My head felt like fog was weaving in and out; the hospital staff sounded like they were operating through static. My neck tingled and my skull felt elastic, my eyes simultaneously dry and full of tears, prickling in their sockets, and my jaw stiff like it had been clenched for too long.

I don't advise the whole rebirth thing, to be honest. Trying to logically accept what you have known for most of your life to be impossible while experiencing it is quite overwhelming, aside from all the blood and gore _and emerging from_ _ **vaginas**_. I cannot stress how dreadful the experience was. Just never do it.

I knew that new-borns skulls weren't fused at the top, given the need to go slightly oval whilst passing through the birth canal – yet at the time, my thoughts were mainly featuring the horror at the idea of being able to reach up and feel a gap in my skull, not basking in awe at the evolutionary ingeniousness.

I knew that the body needed stimulation in order to learn the reflex to breathe, but it didn't mean that my lungs, despite their inexperience in the whole matter, didn't burn in need of oxygen and that I wasn't seizing up in panic because I suddenly didn't know _how to get that oxygen howdoIbreathe_.

I knew that I had, looking back, _obviously_ been reborn, but the idea of there actually being _life after death_ , that there was actually an _**after**_ , truly fucked me up. That being said, I wasn't sure whether it truly was death, or merely a dying fantasy to ease the ending, to let the last thoughts be of something positive.

I wasn't sure whether, if it truly _were_ life after death, whether I would keep my memories, or whether they would be taken from me or fade over time. Was that why no one remembered his, her or their early, early life? Was this actually life? Did it count as life if it was after death? And by that count, what constitutes as death? Because instead of this inherently final thing of existing no more, it was beginning to look like merely an ending of one and then beginning of another. It felt like a cheat, somehow. Was it a one off situation? Did the man from the hotel have something to do with it?

What am I saying, of course he did. Did everyone see him? Was I supposed to recognise him? Was he a god? Was he the God? Or was he something else? Was he like me, dead – oh lordy there's a thought – but had taken up a position of greeting other, newly dead people? Was there a system? Was there a whole plane of non-physical beings? Was that what death constituted as – the lack of a body? But then how does that work, because the spirit or whatever wouldn't have a brain to think with, nor nerve endings to feel with, not hormones to create emotional responses?

I would like to say that I had been reincarnated, but I feel as though that might be treading on toes somewhat.

I was alive.

Emily probably wasn't.

Oh god, Emily had been trapped there in the fire. Emily had been left there – I was going in after her. I was the only one who could get her out. I was the one that left her in the fire – I failed and not only did I die, most probably burning to death which I can belatedly only imagine did wonders for her mental state, but I most likely condemned her to death in the same manner.

I left her.

Oh god not Ems. Not my sister. Not that little shit that kicked me in the back and whined and screeched. Not her. Please not her. Not my Emsy. Not my baby girl, who smiled every time she saw me and cheered every time I gave her a bit of my chocolate and who laughed at my stupid jokes, and grassed me up whenever I did anything and chastised me in the way only a young child can for saying God as if it were a swear word.

Not her, please.

Please.

Not Emily.

If could just go back – I could help her. I could do something – I'd watch out for the ceiling, I wouldn't hesitate because I knew where she was. I wouldn't have gone to the hotel in the first place, we would be alive and happy and whole and she wouldn't be _dead_.

Death, reflecting on it, can be both a blessing and a curse. It could take you from whatever horrible circumstances of life you found yourself in and end it – while you had no more life left, you couldn't be hurt by it and you would no longer suffer, and while it might be a pity, it _could_ be on your _own terms_.

Yet at the same time, it could be all that stands between you and the person you need to help. The person you need to be with. The action that could change yours or another's life – that one moment you needed.

It was the last problem of life – the ending of it. It was the last precipice before nothing. It quite simply was running out of time.

I couldn't go back.

When that man asked if I would live again, he didn't mean as me. He didn't mean my life and my family. He didn't give me a second chance; he gave me a new one. He gave me just as much an opportunity to fuck up this one as I did my first life. He wasn't some benevolent soul who offered to help – that was a tormentor. That bastard screwed me over.

I don't recommend dying.

You get all these grand tales and noble deeds of dying for another, for a loved one or a friend, but living for one, I find, is both irrevocably harder, but worth all the more for the time it uses. And yet you never realise until it's too late. The irony is bitter, no doubt about it. In my case, tasted like blood and what quite possibly was shit – reflexes on the birthing table were basic at best, and usually never spoken of afterwards either. For the best, trust me.

From what I understand, I managed to greet the world in just under two hours, which is actually a very quick labour, thank god, and then didn't stop crying for a solid two weeks, which was how long mother – not Mum, never Mum, but she was undeniably also still my mother – was in the hospital for.

Understandably, I had a great deal to come to terms with; namely the realisation of no longer being in the fire, which actually made me vomit with relief and shame; the realisation of being in an entirely new body and actually accepting it, which made me shit in alarm, and dealing with the awareness that _there was no going back_. Whether I liked it or not, I had been thrust into a new life, a new opportunity. I was given no time to understand, nor accept the true gravity of the situation beforehand and now I was stuck in a mobile incubator, twitching while people in white coats looked up my mothers hospital gown, and I could do fuck all about it.

It was a clean, if rather bland room of whites with richly coloured wooden panelling lining the walls, but was obnoxiously boring to be in when the focus devoted to working out how your limbs worked waned and nothing else happened.

And when anything did happen, it was in _another language_.

Bit of a party pooper that one. It was the rain on my parade, the unexpected stop that halted my train in its tracks and threw any progress I had been making out the very literal window on the right side of the room.

You see, the problem was when I was alive originally; I was very… bad, at learning different languages. I could learn to understand them fairly easily, but speaking or writing in them was like attempting to get a tan from natural light in an underground bunker.

It didn't go well.

I got the occasional word or phrase down, like 'pull the cord in an emergency', which was a fast ramble of words that I could only recognise by the motion the nurse did each time, and what the toilet was called, as my mother would tell me each time she was going so I didn't worry – which was fair enough, as the first five/six times she needed a pee, I screeched the ward down around me.

Sue me, she was warm and comforting and the only person I knew in this worryingly large world, and I was emotionally, mentally and physically fragile. I needed hugs and contact and emotional reciprocation, and she was leaving and I didn't know whether she was coming back. I suppose that helped me attach myself to her as easily as I did – she fulfilled the expectations I had from 'mother' and let me vomit and drool and cry and snot all over her with nothing more than tired amusement or weariness. I felt horrible every time, but she smiled at me with her big brown eyes and warm smile and I melted, trying to convince myself that I would have better control over my bodily reactions before long, and that I wouldn't put her through this torment much longer.

A big fat lie. I was awful as a new-born. I vomited and hiccupped and cried all the time – I felt raw and I couldn't help it. My emotions were more volatile and angry, just waiting for the slightest opportunity to strike. Someone was too loud, someone wasn't doing something fast enough, someone breathed in my direction, a leaf twitched two miles away – you get the picture.

But in amongst all this, I learnt something very important. I learnt my name. In amongst all the tears and the shit and the apathetic nurse who prodded and poked at me with his stupidly large hands, I learnt that my mother had graced me with the name Nāmaka. Well, _Senju Nāmaka_. It was family name first apparently, and she explained very eagerly to my obviously bemused 13-day old face that it was because you were part of a family before you were _you_ , and so I was always going to be connected to her and all those who came before through our shared name.

I thought that was both very deep and insightful, and also full of romanticised shit.

From what I remembered it was because of something to do with the ways the speech was structured, and how Romanisation of the west spread the language and they used 'de' between names or some shit like that and that was why I was used to Forename then Surname and not Family name then Given. It was a vague memory at best from a one off context lesson we did for my Classical Civilisations A-Level, but the point still stands.

However, I enjoyed the sentiment, and while I had trepidations about belonging to family again, because _look what happened last time_ , I went with it. So two weeks of crying and snotting and vomiting all over the place, Senju Nāmaka and Heng-Chia returned home with a bag of drugs and a list of important phone numbers.

Oh dear lordy.

.

.

 **A/N: I'm blown away by the positive response I've had from this story! Thank you all for reading, which is a very odd thing to type because it implies I have** _ **readers**_ **, but that you anyway, you random citizens you. I appreciate any feedback, and I'm more than happy to answer questions, so drop me a message if you have any.**

 **Also - a big Thank You to _Enbi_ (whom I'm a big fan of) who was my first reviewer. Means a lot, bro. **

**Tea**


	3. Chapter Two

**Mono no Aware**

.

What if a destiny was stolen?

.

 **A/N: Here we go – down to the nitty gritty. No more births or complicated emotional transitions from one life to another – well, not directly anyway. While I have no doubt I will encounter worse, last chapter was the single hardest chapter I have ever come across writing. I have tried umpteen times to write it for the variety of Fanfiction I have attempted (i.e. Self-inserts), and now I have one down and out there. I can focus on the new items of business now. A word of warning though, as of this weekend, I have no doubt that updating will slow right down, as I have deadlines and all sorts coming up to slap me in the face and I really need to get decent results so I can actually get into Uni. Understandable, you see.**

.

Disclaimer: I wish I owned Naruto – I would have a great deal more money if I did.

.

 _Kurt Cilke liked dogs because they could not conspire. They could not hide hostility, and they were not cunning. They did not lie awake at night planning to rob and murder other dogs. Treachery was beyond their scope. –_ _ **Mario Puzo**_

 _._

.

Chapter Two

.

.

Okay, when I said we returned home with a bag of drugs and a list of important phone numbers I may well have been under-stating things.

I'll start from the beginning.

When Ma was getting ready to leave the hospital, she got changed out of those awful lime hospital clothes and got dressed. Which isn't far fetched and if anything quite expected behaviour upon leaving a stay at the hospital. I mean, who wanted to be stuck in those as they walk home? They're uncomfortable, and a bit too breezy round the back, and provide no security at all. Plus I'm fairly sure there's a policy somewhere that prohibits it – all that spreading of bacteria and shit, so probably heavily frowned upon.

Once the curtains were opened with a familiar _schhhuk_ , light spilled into the room like ink. The sun hung low in the sky, and there was a wash of oranges and reds coiling across the clouds. The air was cool, and chatter absentmindedly filtered in from a floor below, milling about in the air like smoke from a cigarette and making me yet again frustrated with how little I truly understood.

The Nurse – capital letters necessary – came meandering into the room, straightening everything in reach as he passed. It looked like habit, not even registering on his radar as movement as he greeted Ma with a familiar tone and cooed in my direction condescendingly. I knew he had a busy life and lots of kids to care for, but I could have really done without that. I knew _he_ didn't know, but I was actually _significantly_ older than I looked and being treated like a newborn rubbed me the wrong way, even if I technically was one.

I know the years had treated me well at that point, all of about two weeks of the first one in fact, but looks can be deceiving, so I would have been much obliged if he _could have royally fucked off!_ If it wasn't apparent, I didn't like him. I mean, he was just doing his job and all, but there have been a number of breaches of privacy via this man and I felt violated. I know you think it doesn't matter because I'm a baby and therefore not embarrassed at anything but how _**wrong you are**_. My pride had been stung and I cared little for who found out. I was feeling vindictive. And Embarrassed. It was exposure from the bottom up – literally – and no sense of propriety or shame accompanied it to soothe the ruffled soul. I mean, granted, I wouldn't expect a baby to know the day-to-day customs of a culture that might not even exist this time around either, but really, it was the indignity of the whole thing that got me more than anything else. I was being _manhandled_.

There was a lot of rustling from the other end of the room before Ma hobbled into view again, half inside the long blue skirt and strappy top combination she was being winched into with help from The Nurse.

To be perfectly honest, I wasn't expecting were her being inked up to her eyeballs. I don't think The Nurse was either, because he was eyeing her skin like it might bite him. Blues, Greens and Reds swirled about her back and down her arms, with some odd species of monkey dancing through impossibly large, stylised trees across her shoulders and breasts. There was a parade of some sort walking across her lower back and what looked like a pack of wolves, snarling either side of her bellybutton. It was stunning, greatly detailed and threw me completely out of my depth, because while there was probably a great deal of innocent context that could be said to explain it, in my simple view it looked very similar to the stereotypical Yakuza get up I'd seen in movies.

It was that full torso thing. Ma had it going on under her clothes, no doubt, and I'm pretty sure that was what got her me. I mean, she was stunning to be honest, in a very tired way that seems to follow all new parents. With long brown hair that looked like mahogany and dark eyes squinting at the ties on her shoes, she was a knockout. At an underwhelming five feet three inches, she sat about how tall I was _before_ , and with her mostly ironing board figure and prominent muscle tone, she was a great deal more active than Mum had been. What struck me though was how young she was. She looked no more than twenty-five at the oldest, and about sixteen if she was truly pushing it in the opposite direction. She felt older though, in her bearing – felt mature in a way that I hadn't truly felt before, despite looking like she should be in a group of friends, hanging around outside a supermarket, laughing over a dirty pun.

The tattoo could have just been artistic choice, and I would have carried on happily with that delusion had she not received visitors in the form of four individuals wearing expensive, tailored clothing and _carrying blades on them_.

The Nurse at this point looked like it was only his professionalism keeping him upright. I didn't blame him. I just wanted him to pick me up and run. I will accept you. We could be happy together – just don't leave me with these people.

Of course he did exactly that; he'd taken one look at the group, shoved some paperwork on the bed, let out a pained smile and then sped walked out the room with a slightly regretful glance in my direction.

Oh god, Ma was a Yakuza girl wasn't she. Were they coming to get paid? Were they going to take me away? They weren't going to kill me were they? A thrill of something sharp and cloying clenched at my heart, making it feel tense in my chest.

I was not prepared for the visit in all honesty. I spent most of the time in a perpetual cloud of fear.

The woman, Noriyo, had short ginger hair in a bob and big brown eyes, lined with deep blacks that looked sharp enough to kill a man. She wore a modestly cut black dress that fitted in all the best places, and a dark green haori draped lazily over the top. A _legitimate fucking Katana_ hung from her hips, held by a single belt that almost disappeared into the dress of the same shade, and small black heels, which clacked ominously on the linoleum floor, accompanied it all. She stopped right next to the door and looked directly at Ma with a resigned look on her face as if to say 'I tried.'

The first man to follow her into the room was the biggest of the lot – he had to duck under the doorframe and looked like a brick wall. He had muscles on muscles, short black hair with an undercut, and a harsh face with several old scars slashing through his left cheek. Rentaro had his blade tucked away under the tailored pinstriped blazer he was carrying, the scabbard hanging behind him unobtrusively as he walked – surprisingly quietly – to the window, checking casually outside before settling against the wall.

Sanshirō was a lot leaner, dressed in a pure black suit that swallowed light, and shiny-laced shoes. He too had a blade, but also carried a leather brief case and smiled at Ma as he passed through the door. He had a young, attractive face with long brown hair, which was tied back and draped itself down his back like a waterfall. His eyes were narrow and a striking blue, and I stopped breathing for a moment when he glanced at me because _holy shit were they vibrant_.

The last man was shorter than Sanshirō by about two feet and looked somewhat like a raisin left in the sun. Seiryuu had dark mocha skin, wrinkles that went on for miles and a wild bush of white hair that stuck up in odd directions – vaguely like an Afro, who after a long night of drinking was now feeling the hangover. He looked at least twenty years too old to be walking, let alone marching into a hospital room with a sword of all objects, and shuffled over to Ma with purpose.

Okay, to start, who carries weapons like that? Especially so if you're an old raisin. Sure, I can see it at a re-enactment. I can see them being used as a decoration. I can even see them for ceremonial purposes, but to carry around a sword in broad daylight without, apparently, a care seemed a bit odd. Then again, these people were not carrying these things around for the fun of it – like holy shit. They _actually used these swords_. These were day-to-day, **functional** accessories to them.

I had never been in a situation outside of wrestling with Mum over the TV remote where a physical threat was a legitimate problem, and now people walk in with _SWORDS_. The bed should just open up and swallow me now, and preferably before they focused on me… Have I gone back in time or something? Don't be stupid – when in history have they had heart monitors and swords in the same era. Oh god. _Why do they have_ _swords_ _!?_

I didn't like violence.

True violence is _fucking frightening_. As I said, I'd never truly been in a drastic situation that was a cause for worry – however I had caught the fringes of it before, and it had sent me reeling with conviction to never actually find myself in a fight. The will to actually harm someone, to purposely make them hurt and cry out is an insidious one, lighting your insides to tar in a way that reminded me far too much of the fire. To want someone to feel pain was so very dark and harmful, not only to the individual you focused on, but also for yourself. So very negative.

That doesn't mean of course I have never felt the urge. But I hated it when I recognised it. It was pure, primal emotion that surge and coiled in an unattractive way in the base of my stomach.

There was a fast flurry of words, a pause, and then the group all appeared around my head, peering down at me with curious eyes. I froze under their gazes, feeling far too much like what a rabbit must when crossing the road at night and having an unfortunate encounter with a car. Or like a germ in a Petri dish. I was poked gently on the forehead by Seiryuu who muttered something at me in a gruff voice, and then the other three moved in to make appropriate cooing noises (gravelly ones in Rentaro's case) while they fluttered about the plastic incubator examining me – I just got intimately familiar with their nostrils, to be honest.

It also seemed very odd and out of character for yakuza. I mean, yes these people were still human who breathed and ate and shat and all but oh my god. It was weird, and I was struck by the sense that it shouldn't be, but it was and I consequently wished to just spontaneously combust. I've been that way before, and while it's not pleasant by any means, they would **stop looking at me**.

They eventually pulled away, and then talked for a while longer, a garble of words that went in one ear and out the other. What was evidently business took place around me, arguments breaking out and voices rising slightly, intonations erratic.

With every shout I twitched, half expecting a sword to be broken out or a window to be smashed. Paperwork was passed overhead, a series of characters running up and down and across white pages changing hands or being approved, then placed resolutely back into Sanshirō's briefcase, which had been propped by my head for most of their conversation.

By the time they were finished, the sun had dropped in the sky, and darkness was beginning to creep in. The window had been shut because of the entreating cold, and I had been determinedly bundled up to my eyebrows by Ma, a dorky little hat shoved on my head to cover all exposed areas. I could barely see a thing.

And then we were off.

I was placed in a sling around Ma's front, the group collected anything from around the room that belonged to Ma (and several items that I'm fairly sure didn't, like the picture frame that Noriyo carried out) and we were signed out of care with several wary glances. Cash changed hands – no healthcare service then – and a series of obnoxiously bright hall lights later, we passed through the front entrance and into stark air, a pleasant shock against my skin.

It struck me then that this was the open world – an expanse that carried on far further than I knew. People all over the planet were crawling about it like ants, going about their own business and lives, and had been since before I became aware of what was going on. This was the first step (figuratively speaking) I took into the big wide world, and no one, not even the woman holding me with her freakishly large hands and body, knew that I was a mostly developed person trapped inside a weak little flesh bag of a body. Was this world the same as my last? If so, where was I? Was this the future? Was I in a new reality? Was there a new world order I had to work with? Were the swords going to be a persistent issue?

I didn't know, and that made me extremely uncomfortable, so I complained until Ma comforted me. It didn't really help in the grand scheme of things, but it made me feel better briefly about it all, regardless of how petty it was. Her hands, freakishly big though they may be, were warm and comforting and sure in everything they seemed to do. It was reassuring on some deep level that appealed to a dark area of my soul, and it would not be the last time I took advantage of it.

This new world was loud and busy, and as we turned onto what I think was a market street, it became an explosion of noise. People rushed past, vendors called out prices and conversations carried far further than they had any need to. Signs hung from buildings above me, with brightly coloured material creating awnings to walk under. People were closing curtains and lighting streetlights, and in one notable moment, accidentally mooning me from on top of some scaffolding.

I twitched my fist in that man's direction in mild outrage.

Ma kept glancing down and adjusting me, smiling whenever I met her gaze, face growing amused as we passed stalls for some reason. I learnt later that it was because vendors would stop and bow to the group as we passed – at the time, it went straight over my head. Fruit stalls, fish vendors, material racks and black smiths surprisingly enough, all recognised the reality of the territorial owners. The Hospital was neutral ground, evidently enough.

From what I could gather, we were in a city of debatable quality, with multiple levels and walkways that went on for at least ten stories. They criss-crossed above our heads, people shouting from one level to another and busying past one another, clearly in a hurry to get to their destination. We were at ground level, walking in amongst what steadily became more and more colourful neon, steam vents and fish markets than anything else. Further up, tiled roofs appeared on the catwalks, along with barricades and gratuitous amounts of graffiti, lights playing havoc with the shadows.

The clothing was a cross between typical Hollywood inspired pauper fashions of any stereotypical 'Asian' community, and the nineties. I wasn't sure how I felt about it to be honest. It was a worrying state of affairs, even if you ignored the horrible reality that this was in a really low end of a city, where people evidently had very little, and by the looks of some of the individuals passing by, would stop at very little to gain.

The group talked amongst themselves, Noriyo laughing occasionally with a deep husky sound. It made passers by look over their shoulder on more than one occasion, though everyone blanched once they realised who she was walking with – namely Ma, who was talking with a low timbre to Sanshirō, her chest rumbling against me and providing a grounding force against the din of the streets and my own wandering thoughts.

Posters were plastered across walls, lanterns illuminated the streets with a dull red glow and workers hurried back and to with heavy sacks and boxes. Music pulsed out of buildings and cheers could be heard from what I assumed were the local equivalent of a pub or a bar, people spilling out holding alcohol and alarming amounts of raw fish.

Eventually we passed under a structure of some sort – it kind of looked like a highly decorative Torii gate, only repeated many times so as to make a tunnel, with slightly patchy paint and nails holding a string of lanterns between supports.

A large, circular sign was suspended at the front, with a larger than life, stylised Monkey embossed in gold with unreadable text around it, shining against the streetlights. There were two dark figures hanging either side like guard dogs, looking down on me as we passed, but when I blinked they were gone.

Oh god was this like a hideout or something? But wait, Yakuza aren't afraid of showing where they operate, are they? So it wouldn't be so much a hideout as it would be a headquarters. That probably explains the monkey, though I was concerned about the vanishing guards. Were they alerting people? Was this going to be my last night on what I would hesitantly label as Earth?

Worn looking paper hung from various extremities in assorted shapes and fluttered in a slight breeze. As soon as the last of the beams passed overhead, the sound of the streets became muted, and the air became still. I must have jolted in surprise, because Ma looked down at me sharply and began laughing, exposing sharp canines and explaining to the others in the group, sending them chuckling amongst themselves. Something in me, deep and indignant reared up, but only made itself known via a burp, much to my irritation, and Ma's ever increasing amusement.

Being a newborn child is a pain, never let anyone tell you differently. You can't help but do a great deal of bodily functions whenever and wherever the need be, regardless of the time or the mood, and it often undermines your point, or your day, without chill. It's savage, man.

We approached a building with a large overhanging roof, presumably over a porch, with two glowing metal lamps either side of the entrance. Tiles licked their way over the wooden lip, and oak beams held it all aloft, lining the porch like soldiers stood to attention. There was a bit of fussing over shoes being removed, and then the group moved forward into the building, with Ma at the head this time.

We passed through numerous rooms before emerging to the side of a courtyard, where the sound of running water was loud against the silence of the compound. Turning sharply, we moved through another doorway, only to face another explosion of noise and light that startled me so badly I burst into tears and did something embarrassing at the other end.

There was a lot of shushing, laughter and an alarming variety of different voices murmuring amongst themselves as Ma eased herself to the ground and calmed me, placing my head against her neck and rocking slightly. I hiccupped a few times, breath calming and it was only when I had settled into silence once more, heart no longer attempting to leap from my chest, that she pulled me away. I was placed very gently, albeit awkwardly on the floor, with my blankets unwrapped and spread across the wood so I could be seen.

Cool air hit me, and I wriggled, the sensations unfurling in my limbs liberating. It felt similar to after a week of bed rest – the novelty had worn off after the first couple of days and now all I could think about was stretching my limbs the first opportunity I was given.

Fingers appeared and wiggled in my direct line of sight, moving to the side so I would follow them and it was with a great deal of shock that I realised I could at the very least prompt my head to fall in one direction or the other. That was definitely progress in comparison to the vegetable state I had been in for the last two weeks.

My first impression was that the room was very clean looking, with sliding partitions and wooden flooring. It was very easy to breath, quiet and comfortable – or it would have been, if the several dozen individuals in suits and dresses weren't all kneeling on the floor, looking directly at me in interest.

Being pinned under that many gazes at once was horrifying. And yet also a tiny bit flattering, at the same time.

Horrifying because I couldn't cope with people looking like that at me. I struggled with meeting the eyes of any individual I made conversation with, let alone when do speeches or group work or _anything_ where there was the slightest chance of people actually paying attention to me.

And yet it was also slightly flattering, in the sense that the sheer volumes of people gathered were all here to see me - Well, that's a bit of an overstatement as they were most likely there to see Ma, but you know. They all looked quite eager. It was quite nice, to be honest.

And then they all bowed, prostrate to the floor, and I didn't know what to do with myself.

So yeah, perhaps a slight understatement – there was a little bit more than a bag of drugs and a list of phone numbers. My first year of life started with a picture of me, held by Ma, surrounded by a gang of well-dressed individuals who were all smiling and pulling faces at the camera.

I honestly can't say I've heard that one before. My family owns a bakery. My family was troubled. Mine was made up of a large chunk of the capital cities' crime syndicate.

I didn't meet my father for three months afterwards though. A blur of quick fire conversations that I didn't understand, and a montage of being changed, fed, vomiting and getting frustrated at my own limbs later, he came crashing through the main doors, dripping wet and ecstatic to see me.

That was an odd thought to me. My father in my last life wasn't a large part of my life, and he certainly wasn't good at it when he was. To have a father who legitimately looked eager to be with me… I had a _Dad_.

It was _weird_.

He had a mane of shaggy naturally _white_ hair dripping all over the floor, and his piercing _red_ eyes crinkled warmly as he held me. He had broad shoulders and was generally just a beast of a man, taking up more space with long limbs and another person's worth of hair than was strictly necessary. Despite bleeding the wet into my blankets and dripping from his brow onto my hands, he was warm, and I decided right there and then as he gently and reverently kissed my scrunched up hands in wonderment that he was my favourite. His name was Kuebiko, and also Dad.

The clack of claws on the floor was my only warning before a _very large_ snout appeared by my nose, sniffing deeply at my neck. Two more joined it, and to my horror Dad held me out under them, allowing easier access. Normally I'm fine with dogs – I had several in my last life, but the sheer visceral reaction you have as a child to something that's decidedly big and sharp and possessing of teeth, let alone three big sharp teeth things, is quite hard to ignore.

These things were no ordinary dogs. They looked as if the wolves from Princess Mononoke had decided; I know, let's leap into reality and frighten little children. They appeared to approve of me, however, as I received a large tongue to the ear and a snuffle in the hair before they wandered off.

That was good, because they were my father's companions, and it was very much necessary for me to get along with them. They babysat a lot.

The rest of that year, I learnt a great deal.

Being a newborn, my sources and exposure to the world was limited to what I was allowed to see or be apart of – which is incredibly frustrating, by the way. You have no freedom. You keep being 'saved' by well meaning adults, turned one way or another, shushed, given a feed for every whine (which I disproved of quietly – you're supposed to give small children a structure to work from, but they were first time parents and they weren't doing badly per say, so I couldn't sneer too much) and kept away from anything remotely interesting.

I understand now why babies cry so much when having things taken from them. I mean, granted it's usually warranted, but what was I doing that was troublesome? What was I going to do, kill myself with a blanket? Well, knowing me, I'd figure out a way accidentally, so granted they actually had a small point. Not a big one, because I was irritated and they were right.

Dad's dogs, who were some ancient wolf-hybrid-breed of some sort, were actually a great deal older than they looked. They were older, apparently, than my great-great-grandmother, who was the first in our family tree to work with them, and could talk. Yeah, that surprised me. Like, seriously surprised me. Like, I screamed the first time it happened, and burst into tears. I was very unprepared, but let me tell you, it's by far one of the coolest things about this new life. Most of it was kind of shit and terrifying, but this, this was all right. I mean, it changed my knowledge of the world order and prompted more questions than I had the ability to communicate, but you know, talking dogs. Not a lot really beats it.

They were a trio of females, named Kikin, Sensou and Byōki from eldest to youngest. The names apparently were a pun on their purpose; they were called the Destructive Trio, and their names respectively meant Famine, War and Disease. Whoever named them had a twisted sense of humour; I'll give them that. Kikin was the leader, Sensou the best tracker and Byōki the fastest, and whenever Dad was home (as it were) they often stalked me. I get the feeling that I was placed firmly within 'puppy' and treated as such with gentle nudges and constant checks. They were big and white, with teeth the size of an adult's hands and claws long enough to shred through flesh with ease; they treated me like I was made of glass. It was comforting to know, of course, that they didn't have it out for me, and didn't mind me taking large hand full's of fur for comfort related reasons.

Outside of the large death trio, I discovered that I had so very little dexterity. I had a propensity for waving my fists, but that was about it for about three months. That is an _irritatingly long amount of time when you can do fuck all_. You truly don't appreciate the ability to move properly until it's gone. The day I grew to be able to shift my head without it flopping to the side and without aid was like climbing Everest; the sense of achievement was like a bonfire in my heart, searing its way through my limbs and around my body like a wildfire.

From what I had gathered, between all this, Ma was the head of a Yakuza Syndicate, often holding meetings with important looking people with too many piercings or too much hair gel. People often referred to her as what I picked up to be _Mother_ , which threw me at first because she didn't look old enough to be any of their mothers, biologically speaking. It took a while to click in my mind. Being exposed for so long to the language, you would think I would pick up the basics. Ha, no. I understood a variety of fairly useless words and phrases, like _Monkey_ , and _Chair_ , and _No swords at the table_ , but when people around me went full tilt with one another, I was lost. It was only after about eight months that I began to get a grasp of the language – and that was only listening to it.

I began to understand the rules they laid out. Not that I could really attempt to break them at the moment, but I think they were attempting some strange subliminal, subconscious training so that they sank in easier. You didn't shout in the house. You took your shoes off at the door and put them onto the little shelf that surrounded the lowered entrance. You knocked and then waited for an audience. Most of the time in the house was spent sat on the floor, and some people even knocked at the doorway sitting down. Ma ruled absolute. You were clean and presentable if you wanted to come into the house. You waited at the entrance to the tunnel – that being the Torii gate structure I passed through originally – to be seen and escorted onto the property by some of the house staff. Dad was exempt from a few, as he was apparently not on the same level as Ma in the eyes of the others, but was in a relationship with Ma, so got away with murder in comparison.

I wasn't sure what Dad did, frankly. He spent a solid month fussing over me, learning my tricks and habits, before disappearing for a week, leaving me feeling betrayed and lonely given he took the Trio with him. He then would regularly re-appear with something new for me to look at, before leaving again, often and with notes or paperwork in tow. I think he did some sort of couriering for Ma? Wherever he went, or whatever he did, it took a decent chunk to get back and to, so I was often shoved onto Sanshirō, who was apparently much better at childcare than Ma.

If I wasn't being held, then I was napping – which babies do all the time, by the way, and by that I mean _all the time_. I never slept deeply, merely napped on and off throughout the day and night, and when not napping I was either being fed – which was an experience – changed, which I grew resigned to, or prodded by over eager adults. Strangely enough, I attended a great deal of meetings too. I suppose I was too young to 'understand' in their eyes.

Ma presided over what appeared to be a countrywide network of underground rings and black-market trade. She also apparently had footholds in a great deal of prominent businesses, if the amount of business cards she racked up over the course of a weeks worth of meetings told true. I'm fairly sure they passed messages through them, as she had no need for the business cards of businesses she already held sway in realistically for any other reason. I can't imagine they changed the aesthetic that much to need approval that often.

We – that being the family – were based in the Capital city of the country, with delegates from people very obviously higher up the food chain visiting regularly. Information from the countryside and other cities across the country came flowing in on a daily basis, with orders flowing out just as regularly.

It was a family run thing, as while Ma was the head, the two men who kept appearing with news from assorted places in the form of large stacks of paperwork seemed to be highly respected too. These men were my Uncles. Senju was obviously Dad's last name, because the family business – and wasn't that just a phrase _filled_ with connotations – held to the name _Sarutobi_. And so did the two men.

Sarutobi Sannō and Asuma, respectively.

Asuma was young, looking more like a spider monkey on angst than anything else, often acting like he'd rather be anywhere else. He had a soft spot for me though, only in that way that teenage boys do when they don't want to admit they do actually posses a gentler side. He often sat with me at the edge of the room, playing with my hands when no one was watching and letting me pull at his hair, which appeared to have a life of it's own.

Sannō looked like a shorter, much younger and distinctly lighter skinned Seiryuu. He was at most, five foot tall, with side burns and a sharp face. My initial impression was that if you took of those little hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil sets, and replaced each figure with Sannō, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. He also clearly wanted to turn around and smack Asuma with his scarf on a regular basis.

There was tension there, for some reason, between Asuma and the other two siblings. Ma was apparently the oldest, and so was owed the respect, especially so given the line of work, but Asuma seemed to contest this on a constant basis, disappearing after an argument one day and reappearing with a new addition to his get up – a sash with a character that I definitely recognised as fire.

The household was in uproar for two days afterwards and Ma was furious. Sanshirō, who looked perhaps a year or two older than Asuma, at best, often ended up walking me around to the opposite end of the compound to remove me from the line of fire when this happened, angry shouting blooming from odd ends of the building for a week afterwards. There was a lot of gesturing when I caught sight of the three, before Asuma stormed off and never – to my knowledge – returned to the compound again.

Ironically enough, this was when I discovered that Ma had a side of tempered steel, often employed to shoot arguments down viciously and on one notable occasion that made me vomit and caused my meeting rights to be vetoed, have a man's hand chopped off. It was so sudden and without hesitation that I couldn't sleep properly for about a week and half, crying and shaking for a majority of it, until I fell unconscious, beyond exhausted.

That was a man's hand. Gone. No longer attached. Bleeding everywhere, fingers twitching as he shrieked in pain, clutching at the stump in disbelief.

That haunted me for a long while. And you know what they did it with?

A goddamned _**Sword**_.

Sanshirō, who had something to do with finance, was always present, and often took me on walks around the compound in what I can belatedly say was an excuse to have a break from the numbers. From what I could tell, he was somewhat like Ma's apprentice, and handled a great deal of the workload. With his help, I discovered that there was a pond in the courtyard, full of Koi fish that swirled and ducked in every which way. Many an hour was spent sat beside it, Sanshirō singing and watching the fish as he rocked me.

I discovered his propensity to sit on the porch with some tea and people watch; that there was a large group of unrecognisable trees in the secondary courtyard further into the compound, and that said compound stretched forever. It was a labyrinth of partitions and stairs, which Sanshirō apparently knew off by heart, and often entertained himself by playing kites with me, swishing me through the air in a similar pattern and chuckling at the terrified reactions.

Apparently aeroplanes weren't a big thing around these parts, and everything was predominantly done via boat, foot or carriage. Cheap labour was _cheap_ , and there was very little health and safety wise, which made me feel wonderfully reassured.

The world I had been placed in was very different to my old one. Or perhaps I simply didn't notice the cruelties of it when I was alive. I had lived very comfortably in the latter half of my last life – I can and will admit to it.

I was going to have be very brave to live in this one.

.

.

 **A/N: Longer chapter this time. I had lots to get down and a very shitty understanding of how to get it down. So yes, exposition of a sorts? Lets play who could Nāmaka be feasibly related to now? Anything you notice or want to flag up, please message me – don't be shy. Also, please review with what you think. It helps enormously.**

 **Thanks to all my lurkers. I actually have those! Thanks to everyone who reviewed, it's a big help. And T** _ **hank**_ **s to all those who favourited or followed. Or both. It's very much appreciated.**


End file.
